


Motherfucking Perspicacity

by meowgon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Apocalypse, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, Gen, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:53:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowgon/pseuds/meowgon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Dave Strider's long-suffering 6th grade teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote self-insert fic. I am not sorry in the slightest. 
> 
> This is dedicated to my student who was like Dave in _every single way_ , and originally inspired this fic.

You’re not going to tell anyone your name because you’d like to keep your fucking job.

You are an English teacher at a middle school in a place you also aren’t gonna name because again, motherfucking job.

Now, normally you wouldn’t single out a student and complain about them.  It’s rude and no matter how many bad choices a student makes, they’re still just a kid and you know it.  But—but this is different.  This one is different.  This little kid in your sixth grade Advanced English class is literally going to be the death of you.

You mean the “literally” bit and wouldn’t throw it out there if you didn’t (English teacher remember), no matter how dramatic it sounds.  His existence will drive you to an early grave, without a doubt, either through liver failure or heart disease, you’re not sure which.  Maybe some vicious combination of the two.

Anyway.

Like most of your stories, it all started on the first day of school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is part story, part ridiculous tumblr posts, I'm warning you ahead of time. Credit to my friend Bea for helping me write Dave's shitty raps.

August 13: 

header: **what the fuck y'all**

haha FIRST DAYS am i right. im right dont argue with me

so i had to send a kid to alternative school on??? the FIRST FUCKING DAY??? because apparently my life wasn't enough of an elaborate parody of itself already????????????

this tiny kid (idk if he's 12 or 13 or what but he's like 4 feet tall) pulled some seriously fake naruto sword out of his bag and introduced himself as 'the coolest motherfucker you'll ever meet' then proceeded to wave it around.

you can't NOT send somebody to the office after they drop the f bomb and pull out a weapon (it wasn't even sharp but still) in the same breath, it is basically the law of school, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.

so yeah /what the fuck/ not sure if he's coming back or not because honestly i could not think of a better way to get yourself kicked out of a school on the first day, forever

tags: #swords- #what the fuck #BAD DECISION DINOSAUR #school report

\--

You don't see him for a couple weeks after that. Apparently two weeks of A School was enough to cure him of his need to, one: point fake swords at people and two: say 'motherfucker,' as he's quiet and well-behaved when he comes back. You welcome him with a smile and a pat on the shoulder, because you go in for the charismatic authority, and making friends with problem students never hurts. Sometimes they make the greatest allies. If you had a personal school motto, it would be something like “most kids just need somebody to believe in them,” even if that is cheesy as hell.

You figure it's probably all this one needs.

When you ask him how he's doing, he mumbles something (a lot of somethings), but most of it sounds friendly so you move on without saying much more. Adjectives won't teach themselves.

For the next few days, you keep a close eye on him, just to make sure everything's going smoothly. He's a cute kid, one of those sixth graders who has not yet felt the cruel hand of puberty lay its pimply hand across his face. The four foot thing was an exaggeration, but he's definitely not over five. He's got weirdly perfect fluffy hair, dyed almost white, though there's an edge of black showing at the roots. His tan face is half-overtaken by a pair of aviator sunglasses, kind of odd, but the nurse signed off on them so you leave it be. You caught a glimpse of the eyes behind them when you hauled him to the office on the first day, but you couldn't tell if the odd color was natural. You're sure Itachi contacts wouldn't be a stretch for him, but something about this child tells you the red irises are the real deal.

His name comes near the end of your roster. Dave. Dave Strider. Not the name you expected when you first saw him, but a good one. 

Looking up his file in the school records room tells you a hell of a lot about him. The data doesn't lie. In his case, it only confirms what you already suspected: he's brilliant and a disaster area at the same time. His standardized test scores demand he stay in your class; he blew every Language and Reading test out of the water. Despite that, he barely passed the fifth grade, with C's and D's littered all over the place.

Still, you hope the worst is over regarding his behavior problems. Let his other teachers deal with those, he’s got to be better in English, right? 

–-

Wrong.

\--

September 4:

header: **okay who remembers the sword kid?**

itty bitty baby who got kicked out on the first day of school? yeah that one. he's been pretty good since he got back from a school, except today we were doing bellwork where they wrote poems with adjectives and

i

i can't even get him in trouble for this its beautiful i'm gonna cry this is what he turned in word-for-word:

> yo yo yo so listen up  
>  cause im about to drop some vocab and rock this schoolhouse  
>  admission is k through 12 only  
>  an adjective describes things  
>  defines things  
>  like this gold on my fine rings  
>  see the gold is the description  
>  inscription  
>  like ancient egyptian  
>  kings dig the bling  
>  the bling is the thing  
>  because it modifies the subject of the sentence  
>  like thick to my dick  
>  like my dick is sick  
>  like sick to my rhymes  
>  like over to the times  
>  because were fuckin done  
>  word

so im pretty sure I have to call this kids parents but in the meantime lets all bask in the fact he turned this in to me

tags: #tbd #BAD DECISION DINOSAUR #that is this kid's tag #school report

–-

Calling his parents doesn't work so great.

Turns out he hasn't _got_ any parents, only an older brother named Dirk who is, according to all the papers before you, his legal guardian. When you try to call _him_ , you listen to a Ke$ha ringback for about 20 seconds before it cuts off abruptly in the middle of _but the party don't stop no_.

“Speak,” a deep voice orders.

God, do you hate phones. “Err, hello, is this Dirk Strider?”

“Bro,” he says, like that's some kind of coherent answer in the real world, but you _have_ actually heard Dave mention “his Bro” before so you don't question it.

“Well, this is Dave's English teacher and, um, I was calling to ask if you might have a minute to come in and talk about Dave's writing? Because there might be some issues! And I would hate to see him leaving my class again so soon.” You assume he knows about Dave getting sent to alternative school, considering the buttloads of paperwork parents have to sign when it happens.

“Gimme a time and a place and I'll see what I can do.”

Something brisk and robotic in his voice puts you on edge, but you manage to stutter your way through arranging a meeting with him after school the next day.

\--

Dave's older brother is offensively attractive, while his hair is mostly just offensive to the ozone layer. You can only imagine how much hair spray went into his bangs, just to be crushed under a trucker hat. You consider asking if he's an anime character just like Dave (he's wearing Kamina shades for god's sake), but you settle for staring a bit instead. His collar is popped. His shoulders are amazing.

When you ask him what he does for a living, he says porn.

Nobody covered how to respond to _that_ in your methods class.

\--

September 5:

header: **oh no**

bad decision dinosaur's guardian is scary and hot and possibly a robot or a vampire i need a drink

he may also be a gay pornstar i think i need to research this

tags: #BAD DECISION DINOSAUR #the ongoing saga #i think his brother gave me a fear boner #send help #My Slow Descent Into Alcoholism #school report #also he was zero help #i see where this kid gets it from


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From this point forward there's going to be some vague allusions to Bro being abusive so please turn back now if you don't want to read that.

header:

.

tags: #i googled his name #when he said he does porn he wasn't kidding #though not in the way you think #uhhhhhh #i am not going to link this because then you'll know my students last name #but #damn #that is not the kind of porn i expected #ykinmk #BAD DECISION DINOSAUR #the ongoing saga

–-

You do not tell Dave you googled his brother. He probably doesn't know about what Bro does for a living, so why would you bring it up? That's not the kind of thing most people would shove in a kid's face, especially their little brother, no matter how many weird vibes the guy gives you.

Instead, you pull Dave aside after class is over and tell him, casually, that Bro's a little intimidating and you probably want to call him as little as Dave wants you to call him, right? He nods hard enough to shake his huge shades down past his eyebrows. There's a small bruise and split in the skin of his right eyebrow, like maybe he ran into something? Or fell down? Or got punched in face, there's that too.

Instincts you didn't know you had until now rear up. You can hear your classroom management professor shouting “you have a responsibility to report!” in your head but silently shout back that you don't have any evidence. That quiets things down.

“Ouch, that looks like it hurts,” you say. 

Dave shoves his sunglasses back up and shrugs. “I was just playing around on my roof, learning how to do some wicked slices and...” You eye him, and he backpedals, “I was doing _stuff_ with my new sword when I messed up and took a slide down the stairs as fast as a lubed-up--”

You eye him about twice as hard as before. He clamps his mouth shut, huffs, then starts again. “I fell down, okay.” 

His gaze drifts downward as he transitions into what you've started to think of as _Dave mumble mode_. “Why you gotta crush a man's metaphors all the time, teach, there's no reason to be a hater just 'cause the rules say I gotta keep certain words off the table, we're not _babies_ , anyway it was just some stairs no big deal even if it was lame.”

You laugh, trying to lighten the dourness in Dave's voice. The poor kid takes looking cool way too seriously (that's most middle schoolers for you). “Sounds like somebody should have warned you about stairs, Dave!”

His head snaps back up and you can see his dark eyebrows rise through the veil of his bleached hair as his mouth stretches into an incredulous gape.

You pause. The reference was not supposed to hit home quite so hard, you figured he was too young, but your sense of Nerd Pride flairs up and keeps you from pretending it was nothing.

“What? I've been on the internet before.”

The bell rings. He keeps staring. It's your planning period so you're off the hook, but he's got a class to get to.

“Do you want a pass?”

–-

He doesn't want to leave. Something about how much he hates gym class, which you figure is fair, you hated gym as a kid too. You like him, so you stretch the rules. For all Dave's a foul-mouthed pintsize punk, he's entertaining company, funny and cynical and not as smart as he thinks he is. You give him chores to do and he obediently takes your broom and sweeps around the corners of the room, although he pauses to slash it around like a sword when he thinks you're not looking. 

When he breaks the broom in half he looks at you like he's ready to start a fistfight in his defense. You sigh. His next project is duct taping the damn thing back together. You assure him it's fine and you're not mad, in fact, it was kind of hilarious, but his shoulders stay half-raised to his ears.

“You take sword-fighting pretty seriously, don't you?”

He doesn't look up from his task. “Yeah, but I'm not any good at it,” he says. “My brother says I really blow at it. And programming, and rapping, and building things, and,” his voice fades, “at being cool, most of all, I stink at that the worst.” His tone makes him sound about ten years older than he should.

 _Sixth graders_. They are all out to make you cry. You imagine squishing him in a hug tight enough to break him in half. You settle for the patented Awkward Teacher Side-Hug. You tell him in a wobbly voice that he's good at lots of things.

He's silent for a while, then: “Do you really think my comic's funny?”

It takes you a minute to catch his meaning.

\--

header: **i can't even**

today at school there were certain developments that i can't elaborate on because i have a feeling this kid looks up shit relating to him every five seconds

but let's put it this way: BDD is internet famous for completely legitimate reasons

tags: #it's like having sonichu in my class #BAD DECISION DINOSAUR #the ongoing saga #he drew me a picture and signed it im gonna sell this on ebay in ten years #make $$$


	4. Chapter 4

You don't tell your followers that you're worried Dave might be abused. Privacy does mean _something_ to you. Whatever happens is between you, him, and the state of Texas, should they have to be involved.

Your professors told you to keep documents. When you see a bruise, you write down the date, where, what it looked like. When you ask about them (“Hey, Dave, looks like life's treating you pretty rough, what's up?”), you always get the training excuse. From some students you would discount such clumsiness immediately, but. Well. You've seen Dave break his pencils from holding them too tight, accidentally throw notebooks across the room when pulling them out of his desk, and trip over the laces of his shoes more times than you can count.

Expensive shoes, yes, and hipster jeans from some brand name store, hair that gets expertly re-dyed whenever the black shows more than a couple centimeters. He's always clean. Looks healthy enough. He never does his homework unless he finishes it in class. Sometimes when people tap him on the shoulder, he screams. Nobody wants to be his friend, but he's forever texting on his phone, so _somebody_ must talk with him. He asks you if he can hide an 18-pack of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in your filing cabinet “just in case,” and he looks so worried about whatever “just in case” is that you acquiesce.

Then you write it all down and lock it away, for your own just in case.

\--

“hold on sweetcheeks cause i am about to lay some beats on your head so nasty you'll think i was ike turner's vengeful ghost”

 _That_ line gets him sent to the counselor. When you write him up, he looks at you like you have suddenly yet inevitably betrayed him. You try to look firm.

The next day, he leaves you an apology letter in the form of a sonnet, and you assume you're forgiven.

\--

One of the best behaved girls in the class (and consequently the student you recently sat Dave next to) comes to tell you that he is bleeding all over the place. You groan internally, make a mental note to write about this in your file, and call him up to your desk.

Before you can write anything, you have to handle the not-actually-very-bloody problem in front of you: a thin cut he idly picked open. Scoffing, he refuses the Hello Kitty bandaid you proffer.

“It's not even a little bit ironic. Hello Kitty's been _done_ , Teach.” (You are always 'Teach' to him, but that's fine. It's gender neutral, which you like.)

“Forget irony, Hello Kitty is awesome, and also the only bandaid I have. Plus, blood is gross.”

He looks dubious. “I – D – K,” he says, and you put it on his arm anyway as punishment for using chatspeak in a real life conversation. He whispers “F – U” when you turn to put the bandaids away but you pretend not to hear. One more office visit won't help his attitude. Such battles have to be picked carefully.

A round of hand sanitizer for everyone involved and the problem is taken care of. Blood is a hazardous substance and you were undoubedly supposed to follow a fuckton of procedures about cleaning it up. Instead, you just ignored them all! That is kind of how the teaching thing works.

–-

header: 

today i made bad decision dinosaur wear a hello kitty bandaid this is why i got into the teaching field folks this is the real reason

tags: #he also told me to go fuck myself #but quietly #so i let it slide #teachers hear everything you say kids #this one time kids halfway across the room were quietly talking about how much teachers can hear and i was just like 'everything' #they flipped their shit it was great #bad decision dinosaur #hello kitty

–-

If Dave were in your non-Advanced classes, he would probably have some friends. If nothing else, he wouldn't stand out so painfully. Your two “regular” (god you hate that word, nobody is regular) classes are rambunctious, rowdy, inattentive, and occasionally vile; he would fit in fine with them. At any given time, three of them are out of their desks and only half are working. Dave's made for those classes.

But your Advanced class this year, they're angels. Studious little angels who want to work in small groups, to read silently, and they will stay on task even if a fire alarm goes off, you've seen it for yourself. Yeah, okay, you have to walk around to make sure they're on task _sometimes_ , no kids are perfect, but overall they're an easy-to-manage bunch. Advanced doesn't go that way every year - they're all different, every class - but this year, they're like the peace-filling in the middle of a chaos sandwich.

While most of them are too polite to call Dave out on his obnoxious bullshit, you can tell how much some of them hate him. They roll their eyes whenever he opens his mouth, discount him in group discussion, push him out of group projects, and tell on him as soon as he steps out of line. Some days you are hard-pressed to justify not sending him to the office when most of the class wants him gone. It sucks, but you can't force them to like him. The best you can do is assign him to groups and hope desperately that he won't fuck up the opportunity for normal social interaction you just handed him.

(He always fucks it up.)

\--

Dave never does his bellwork unless you lean over his shoulder and force him (or the prompt is so good he can't resist), so each period starts with him wandering around the class trying to talk to whoever will give him the time of day. Kids hunch over their notebooks while he rambles at them, talking about music and books and some movie his friend told him about, things that they clearly don't care about.

One girl finally gets fed up and punches him in the side when he touches her hair for no reason. You pretend you didn't notice because, really, he earned that one. She whines that you need to get him to sit down and you sigh, giving him 'the look.' He goes, though he trails mumbled complaints all the way to his desk, which you recently moved to the back of the classroom. He does better without distractions.

“Didn't even do anything, why girls gotta hate, I ain't even mad, I just was trying to get her to look up at me, not ignore me like that 'cause it's rude when somebody's talking to you to not even pay a little bit of attention, everybody in this whole class is a tool,” on and on and on, you hear him mutter.

“Dave,” you say from your desk. He comes to bother _you_ instead of staying in his seat.

“Can I use your computer?”

“Nope.”

“Can I use your iPhone charger?”

“I don't have an iPhone.”

“Whaaaat, you are so behind the times.”

“Dave, have you done your bellwork yet?”

He shuffles back to his seat, but you can tell he's playing around with his phone, not writing anything down.

–-

The bruises don't stop appearing. He never makes any friends. Just when you think you've trained him not to curse in class with lots of positive reinforcement, he starts making elaborate dick metaphors in the middle of a class discussion.

You don't know what the hell you should do. They send him off to Alternative school again and the class seems much emptier without him.

\--

header: **godspeed bdd :(**  
  
they kicked bdd out of my class again because he compared his penis size to that of the population of china. it was not a high point for him, gotta say.

i am honestly stumped. he is a really great kid sometimes and he aced the last couple latin roots tests, the outsiders unit went great and he's back up to an A despite his best efforts to never turn anything in???

but now he's gone for however long they keep him and who knows how he'll act when he gets back

tags: #bad decision dinosaur #penis metaphors #the ongoing saga #help #i just want to hug him

–-

\--  [TT] torridTransmigration began pestering [GC] gentlemanCat --

TT: Hello.

GC: yo stranger

GC: assuming you aren't a spambot

TT: Sometimes I wonder.

TT: It's a philosophical question to be sure.

TT: But for all intents and purposes, no.

GC: haha okay if you say so

GC: so uh what's up who is this??? i don't give out my handle a lot

TT: Not a lot, no, but you have before.

TT: Ain't impossible to backread and find something you left up.

GC: dude

GC: creepy

GC: not the best way to start a conversation

TT: Shrug. I'm not looking for a conversation so much as a... 

TT: Brief conference.

TT: I would say parent-teacher, but how about we give that a slight adjustment.

TT: Say, guardian-teacher.

TT: Have I foreshadowed this shitty reveal enough?

TT: Let's talk about Dave.


	5. Chapter 5

It's your worst fucking nightmare come to life.

Teachers get fired for posting pictures of beer on their Facebook pages. Teachers get fired for texting at work. Teachers get fired for giving students Advil for a headache. When they're not tenured, teachers get fired for having _opinions_.

When they're caught posting the kind of shit you upload online, teachers get fired, never ever ever teach again, and possibly go to jail.

_Fuck._

Your chest heaves, and you start coughing until you can barely see the orange text on your screen. There's a twisting in your stomach that feels like snakes trying their best to escape through your navel. Thunder explodes in your ears, rumbles down the back of your neck in waves of tensed muscles. You take a moment to scream and smash your hand against the desk. A deep breath rattles your ribs.

With your hand still stinging, you reply to Dave's brother.

\--

GC: damn do i have to start using punctuation now  


TT: Relax. I won't hold you to the same high standards I require of myself.  


TT: It's easier for everyone that way.  


GC: haha okay awesome i'm feeling the respect here  


GC: i will put on the teacher hat and look proper and pretend you weren't on my tumblr five minutes ago  


GC: actually no fuck that we both know you were

TT: I agree. There's no need for obfuscation when I obviously have the goods on your illicit internet inscriptions.  


TT: Bawdy blogging?

GC: you're hilarious  


TT: I know.  


TT: But that's mostly irrelevant to the current conversation.  


GC: well if you wanted to the conversaiton to be about dave you're sure dancing around it  


GC: he's a great kid but i assume you're aware  


GC: he's got an a in my class and everything right now so why go to the trouble of hunting me down  


GC: how did you even manage it btw good job internet detective  


TT: Popular as my sites may be, it wasn't that hard to check the unique hits from Houston that day.  


TT: Most of them didn't immediately post on Tumblr afterward.  


GC: damn  


TT: So, about Dave.  


GC: i can't decid e if youre threatening me or not dude  


GC: can we jsut clear that up before we go on n

By now, your hands are shaking badly. He takes a heinous amount of time to reply to what should be a simple yes or no question, long enough for you to snap the edge of your pinkie fingernail between your teeth. You gnaw on the raw edges while you wait.

TT: No, not really.  


TT: If I were threatening you, I guarantee you would know it.  


TT: This is more like a mutual show of our hands.  


TT: I publish pornography for a living, you write it for fun.  


TT: Both of us could suffer repercussions based on this information.  


TT: You think I'm abusing Dave.  


GC: not exactly  


TT: You're suspicious enough that he notices you monitoring him.  


GC: yeah okay that's fair  


GC: no offense but dave is a messed up kid and it is my job to worry  


TT: And you are nothing if not a stalwart professional.  


GC: in the things that matter yes  


GC: thxxx for noticing  


TT: You're welcome.  


TT: You can read that with whatever level of sarcasm you deem appropriate.  


TT: Regardless.  


TT: The slippery point I'm trying to wedge into an overly tremulous hole is this:  


TT: Dave is fine, and any reports of otherwise to government agencies would suck balls for both of us, considering our usual activities.

There's the bomb dropped, right on your head. You cover your face with both hands, let out a groan. It's mutually assured destruction, but if you're honest with yourself, and honest with Dave's terrifying brother, you know shit's worse in your corner. Standards are so much higher for teachers.

GC: i'm reading you loud and clear  


GC: still feels like blackmail bro  


TT: Sorry.  


GC: wow you are so not!!!  


TT: Think what you want.  


GC: you realize this makes me like 1000x times more worried  


TT: Yes.  


TT: That's fine. I don't mind people worrying about Dave's safety.  


TT: But, in the long run, he's my responsibility.  


GC: okay  


GC: i guess that's fair enough  


GC: you're not even going to bring up the other stuff then??  


TT: Was there an important subject I missed somewhere?  


GC: we met didn't we  


GC: like in person and everything  


TT: I haven't developed hologram technology yet.  


GC: right well  


GC: cool then  


TT: Another minor problem: Dave's current school records are slightly forged.  


TT: Only by a letter, but you know the weight those can hold.  


GC: what  


GC: duDE  


GC: are you serious right now????????  


TT: Are we even, then?  


GC: fuck  


GC: yes we are i think we actually are  


GC: close enough  


TT: Excellent.

\--  [TT] torridTransmigration ceased pestering [GC] gentlemanCat --

\--

**header:**

bdd's brother is still terrifying and hot txt it

tags: #bad decision dinosaur #this is probably the last post about the bdd saga though sorry #conflict of interest #you are all heartbroken i know

\--

You might be overdoing it with that final post, but you have a feeling Bro Strider will enjoy your comments nonetheless.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE END OF AN ERA... Motherfucking Perspicacity will be finished soon. This is the second to last chapter. This chapter is going to disappoint for wacky antics, but for anyone who's ever been a teacher, I hope it rings true.

You are not Dave Strider’s middle school teacher for much longer.　

The years always go too fast. March rolls around, they leave for Spring Break, and when they come back there’s only a month of energy left in the students, not to mention you or the other teachers. April gets to everyone. The failures of the year start to pile up on your shoulders like the paperwork piles up on your desk. Frankly, you are shit at dealing with either. 

Reagan still hasn’t learned what an infinitive is, Kaleb never did turn in the project necessary to take his grade from a B to an A, Emory falls asleep when he should be trying to catch up. Sam still fights with Katherine every damn day. You're not sure you ever taught them what you really wanted—a way to express themselves in the face of a world that refuses to listen to those without a strong, certain voice.

Then there’s Dave. He sits in the back on his phone most days. You struck a deal with him, when his brother’s threats were still keeping you up at night: he doesn’t disrupt class too wildly, you leave him alone. He makes decent grades on everything you throw at him, but you’re afraid to challenge him anymore, lest something delicate snap. You expected the other kids would give you a hard time for letting Dave slack off, but they seem relieved to have him typing away at his iPhone underneath his desk instead of bothering them. The only one disappointed by this arrangement is you.

He never talks to you after class the way he used to, never stops by during breaks. It feels like you let the best fish you ever caught flop, gasping, right back into the water without a second look. His shoulders fill out and his voice deepens, but he talks less and texts more. Every day he seems a little farther away.

Contrary to what the casual observer of your online persona might think, you take your job to heart. You play flippant, but if you thought Dave was in danger, _real_ , imminent danger, you would make the call. These kids are your _babies_ , and you spend most hours of your day worrying about them in one form or the other. If there was anything but ghosts to grasp at, your principal would know. You want every last on of them to be safe, more than you want your job.

That's the honest truth, isn't it?

\--

In between the usual frantic pace of lessons, you look up from your desk and see that they all are sand slipping through your fingers. You’re never skilled enough to hold them for long. They don’t want you anyway. Who do you even think you are? You’re just another adult who wants to run their lives without their consent, one in a long line of them, with more coming.

Planning period catches you staring out your window at the dusty playground, dry from another Texas summer. You remember the desert you used to live in: infinitely sandier, hotter, emptier. Sand got inside everything. Nothing was as solid as it seemed when the wind was blowing off of the Sinai. Doorways rattled and let long thin streams fall onto the cool inner floors, and once inside, there was no getting ride of it. It lived under your nails, in your mouth, in your ears, in your eyes.

Sometimes you wish you were as hard for them to brush off. Wondering, as your eyes focus on the countdown towards 3:10, how many of them will remember you in five years.

\--

**header: the end of an era**

i know i said the bdd story was over but i lied because there’s no way i can keep quiet about this. he passed! the scrawny little memelord passed the whole year and now he’s off to fight through another year with an infinitely inferior english teacher (not me).

tags: #godspeed, bdd, godspeed #bad decision dinosaur

\--

Next year, you see Dave in the hallway almost every day. He's not gone far—just one pod over from yours.

Puberty's hit him like a brick in the face, turning his soft little baby cheeks into a war zone of acne and sharp edges, battling to dominate his heart-shaped face. But he looks good for it too, like he's steadier, more adult. Teachers still roll their eyes at the mention of his name, but you hear he gets sent to A school way less these days. If you close your eyes and pretend real hard, you can convince yourself you had something to do with that.

\--

“Do you ever feel like the world’s gonna end?” 

Those are the first words Dave's said to you in months, and this is the first time he's been back to your classroom since the end of last year.

“It will, I guess, but I’m hoping to miss out on it by a few million years,” you say, not looking up from the papers you're grading.

“Nah, I don’t mean some Doctor Who junk where we’re all swallowed into the void ‘cause the galaxy woke up a monster or something, I mean something more now, like a war or a plague that gets up in your face without so much of a 'scuze me.' The end of the world as we know it, and we are _not_ feeling super fine, as it were.”

“The zombie apocalypse is unlikely, so I’m not too worried.”

“Mm.”

“Why are you here, Dave?”

He fidgets in silence, then drops his backpack on the floor and sits down on top of it.

“I don’t know. Seemed better than paying four bucks to sit around hipster watching at Starbucks. You got any gum?”

You do have gum, although you wouldn’t give it out to most students. Dave nods when you hand it over, but he doesn’t smile.

The whole conversation only lasts about 30 minutes. Dave lolls around on his backpack like it’s an unruly steed, but he refuses your offer of a chair. His voice is so much lower now, but his words are very him. Everything’s fine in 7th grade. His classes suck but Mr. R isn’t bad for English. Do you still check on the comic? He knew you would. Funny stuff, right? Cool.

Your hands stay occupied with your red pen. If you listen too closely, he may run off.

You wait for him to get to the point, but he never does, only shifts more and more restlessly until his phone starts playing what sounds like a high-speed remix of one of the Naruto openings. Your luck is bad, because it’s not one of his online friends. It’s his brother.

“Sorry, Bro’s blowing up my phone, (phone),” he mutters the second 'phone,' like it's a private joke, and not one of the biggest pop hits of the year “so it's time for sword practice, and there’s a game I gotta check out later. Catch you some other time, Teach.”

“Dave, has he ever hurt you?”

He looks up from his phone and smiles that one centimeter smile he must have practiced in the mirror a thousand times, barely more than a crook of the mouth. That’s the first smile you’ve seen from him in a year, and he’d probably tell you that’s because he’s so cool, but you think it’s because he’s not happy very often, when you get right down to it.

“No stress, sensei. It’s just practice.”

He leaves with a nod and a wave. You are a professional. Letting him walk out the door is not such a crime.

April gets to everyone.


	7. Chapter 7

TT: As a small courtesy to a fellow queer pornographer who's had to deal with my dumbshit lil bro:  
TT: Take the day off. Enjoy it.  
TT: You'll thank me.  
GC: lol okay   
GC: but i have a vocab test to give today and tbh those kiddos aren't getting off that easy  
GC: p.s. that shit was ominous as hell, what are you talking about?  
TT: Nevermind, Mr. Mistoffelees.  
TT: Have fun at school.  


\--  [TT] torridTransmigration ceased pestering [GC] gentlemanCat --

GC: excuse you i am CLEARLY bustopher jones

\--

When the students finish their vocab tests, you let them work on their individual projects. That translates to a lot of slacking, but it's quiet, so you lean back and enjoy. You play censored versions of Kanye songs in the background to the delight of the four of your students who know his non-singles. It's exactly the type of “who gives a fuck” day that helps you survive the last month of the year. Something shifts a little, and you smile. May is almost here. You can make it, together, across the finish line.

\--

Unfortunately, the world ends that evening.

Dave's brother knew, somehow. Was that what Dave was afraid of, all this time? Not his brother, but this? Is that what he was trying to tell you?

Well. There's nothing to be done about it now. Instead of fighting it, you go up.

You expected to find people rushing around, but the stairs were empty as you climbed them. So is the roof. When you think about it, you guess the roof is not the option a fireman would tell you to take. Maybe everyone has more sense than you. Emergency alert: smoke rises, heat rises, buildings fall, so stay on the ground. But you can see everything from here, and there's so much to see.

Everywhere you look, there's a new meteor, then a new fire. There are sirens and the sound of car alarms, but no screaming. It's as if the world has emptied out already. The heat from the streets, buildings, and cars turns the spring into summer, hotter than even Texas is used to enduring. 

If you were still at school, you'd be responsible for a whole crowd of students. The administrators would have already herded them into the hallways, packed them against the walls as if that would save anybody. The smell of sweat and melting floor wax would make everyone dizzy, and angry, and afraid. There would be the principal on a megaphone, and news from the government, and maybe a last-minute evacuation. Too dramatic, too exhausting, too unlikely to succeed. It's better that you're not there. Here, you're afraid, but you're alone, so you can embrace the resignation. You don't have to see their faces. You won't think about their faces.

Instead, you lean against the railing that surrounds the roof. Nothing is real down there, you think, then you shake your head at how inane you are at the literal _end of the fucking world_. Your body starts to shake with sudden cold. Ridiculous, because the sweat is practically sizzling off of you. It's a symptom of shock. You are in shock, this is how shock _works_ ; you are almost certain of that, but you don't move from the railing. It's the end, let there be shock. Shock and fire.

 _Robert Frost got it right the first time_ and _Robert Frost was a huge dick_ run through your head like two parallel lines. You're frozen in place, cold, so cold, even though you're burning. Is the ice here too? What, in the end, is going to suffice? He's a dead poet. He doesn't have any answers for you.

The smell of burning garbage takes you back to the desert again. Some military men who worked for your father would come to clean your house, then they'd take the garbage and burn it right outside the house, a few hundred feet into the desert. He always yelled at them, but they'd do it again in a few weeks. You hated the yelling more than the smell of garbage. Calling your father in a time like this would be the thing a good kid does, yeah? But you don't call him, or anyone else - not even them - because you're waiting for something.

A whooshing noise makes your head snap up. You expect a meteor, but much, much stranger is the sight of Dave Strider sailing past on a bright red board that flies as easy as anything. He's far out of your reach, not looking toward you, but you would know him anywhere, dressed in a red suit like he's old enough for prom (he's not) with a sword in his hands. 

_Do you ever feel like the world's going to end...?_

A red spirograph opens in the sky above the city.

Your breath hitches. It burns from the smoke, makes you cough until your eyes water with liquid they shouldn't be wasting. But he's still there, moving towards the light, when your tears dry up. Not a mirage, not an illusion. You can see the real Dave Strider.

Perspicacity is a word that only teachers seem to use. It means knowing things. Noticing things, even when they challenge you. Realizing when to interrupt and when to shut up. When things are actually going okay and when something's secretly wrong. Seeing the best in everybody, even the one kid you think is the absolute worst. Good teachers have it. You think you have it, though you've doubted it since his brother left you shaking at your computer screen. Since you let Dave go without a fight. Didn't you? 

He's not your responsibility, Bro said, but you rebelled and made him a little bit your own anyway, slipped like sand into his pockets where Bro couldn't shake you out.

The red light in the sky seems to be opening up to greet him. Your pulse is a fist pounding inside your head. His silhouette starts to vanish. Is he going to be safe? Did you teach him anything worthwhile? Is he going somewhere with books, with music? Will he find you again in the familiar lines of story? Or a song?

You'd take that in a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA HA IT'S DONE TAKE THAT HOMESTUCK


End file.
